Journal entry from 1983 ~ the gold mining years
High Sierra
Cold Water Creek
The day started out the same as most mornings. The air was brisk, even cold when I slipped out from the warmth of our down cocoon. My breath plumed in front of me as I inhaled the pungent piney air. I lit the stove to start the coffee and then stirred the coals in the fire ring. Adding a handful of chips and bark, I blew a few strong puffs and was rewarded with a slender flame that I encouraged with more wood. The fragrant smell of wood smoke filled the air. From the safety of a high limb above, a squirrel scolded me for my efforts. By the time the coffee was ready, Charlotte had joined me at the fire and we contemplated our day, warming one side at a time against the chill of the high mountain air.
After a hearty breakfast, we loaded our backpacks with our lunch and enough gasoline to run our dredge for the day. The hike down the steep trail to the river took about 15 minutes with an occasional slip or two. We had carved the trail in a series of switchbacks because of the steepness. The creek didn't look any different that day either. The towering trees formed a canopy over our heads and the clear, icy mountain stream plunged and gurgled it's way past us. We were mining for gold in the High Sierras of Northern California using a suction dredge - sort of like an underwater vacuum. The gold in this particular stretch of the river had been meager to average. The creek seemed stingy, wanting to hold onto it's treasure. Somehow though, I sensed a shift - a tingling deep in the primitive part of my brain.
Charlotte and I took turns underwater and this morning was my turn to begin the day. The water was icy cold and the first dive began before the sun hit the water so no one argued for the first shift. The water was so cold that we piped warm water from the engine down the back of our wetsuit. I began to clean the jagged bedrock with the dredge nozzle. The surface of the rock didn't prepare me for what was about to happen. I was working along a smooth fluted groove in the rock when I came to the hole. It was circular and about 3 feet across. We called them boil holes because sometime in the geological history of this stream, there had been a waterfall here which had provided the energy to create a vortex that had carved the hole out of solid rock.
The tingling became a constant vibration in my head. I slowly worked my way down through the tightly packed rocks and pebbles, my mind filled with visions of gold. About two feet down, the brilliant flash of native gold caught my eye. A perfect teardrop shaped nugget about 1 1/2 inches long materialized and I excitedly handed it up to Charlotte who was standing in the water next to me. Knowing how gold seeks the lowest level, I thought, "If this big piece is up here above the bottom, what must lie below?" Now I knew that the river was rewarding us for our perseverance. After clearing another foot or so, the hole began to slope inward, signifying that the bottom was near. As the last debris began to clear from the bottom, a golden glow began to fill my vision. There in the bottom of the hole, layers of gold nuggets gleamed with the shiny brilliance that had started wars and birthed the west. I handed the largest ones up to Charlotte. I motioned for her to cut the engine so that we could take a look in the box. Sure enough, it was lined with golden color.
Just as we were cleaning the last of the gold from the riffle box, a huge roll of thunder interrupted our excitement. A storm was right overhead. We raced up the trail barely ahead of the heavy droplets of rain. Breathlessly, we jumped into the pickup and headed for camp, exhilarated by all that the day had blessed us with.
